A Study in Time and Space
by Silence Just Fell
Summary: John Watson and the Winchester brothers must race against time to find the Doctor, save Sherlock, and restore balance to the universe.Spoilers for the Reichenbach Fall.
1. Chapter 1

It was quiet. Quieter than what John would consider normal, especially for 221B, Baker street. Except, of course, he knew he would have to adapt to this level of noise, now that the one man it got its liveliness from is no longer. He died four months to the day, yet his coat still remains thrown carelessly over his chair, as if he were still here, still deducing.  
>Still breathing.<br>John let out a painful sigh. Breathing had become a little more difficult after the passing of his former flatmate, his friend Sherlock Holmes. It seemed tedious and unnecessary, and he longed to just let go, to drift into a world where such actions are not needed to live; a world where Sherlock Holmes is alive, and a hero once more. John knew, just as he still knew every mesmerising detail of Sherlock's face, that this was something he couldn't wish to hope for. No. Sherlock was a fraud. He was dead, and even after everything he saw, John knew nothing could ever bring him back. Not a spell, not a remedy, not some bizarre act of timey-wimey madness; not even his love for Sherlock could help him now.  
>He had been alone. Alone and empty and struggling to grasp with both hands the thin, fragile threads of existence, yet Sherlock had appeared, like a brilliant, arrogant miracle, and made him better. Things had been good for John, for a little while, at least. But now he was alone, and empty once more.<br>Somewhere in the distance, he heard a phone. It was coming from the kitchen, yet he felt compelled to stay where he was, resting on his chair, nursing his leg which had reverted back to its old ways, his eyes locked on the seat where his best friend once sat, and would never sit again. A part of him believed that maybe, just maybe, if he stared long enough at the old chair, he would perhaps catch a glimpse of another life, another time, one which Sherlock was alive and they were together. As far as priorities went, John classed that far above something as wearisome as a phone call; even though he knew the only people who would want to call him now were of utter importance.  
>"John!" came the kind, motherly voice of his landlady, Mrs Hudson, who was, as of late, the only woman in life his. Before he could even consider bringing himself to reply, she appeared through the door, looking mousey and warm, just as she always did. "The phone's ringing, my dear. I can hear it from downstairs. Can't you? Oh, don't worry, dear, I'll get it if you want." John managed a slight nod and a smile, perhaps mistaken for a grimace, and she toddled over to the kitchen, grabbing the phone with surprising energy for her age.<br>"Hello? . . . Oh! Hello, dear! . . . Oh yes, I'm fine, thank you, Sam. You're ever so kind . . . Oh, well. He's . . . he's dealing . . . Would you like me too put him on for you? . . . . Yes, love, you too. Take care now!"  
>Mrs Hudson reappeared from the kitchen and handed John the phone. For just a second, John thought he caught a glimpse of worry on her face, but it was only for a moment, and then that sweet, reassuring beam had returned. "It's those nice American boys who visited. Sam and Dean Winchester, I think they're called? Wanted to see how you're doing."<br>John pressed the phone to his ear. "Hello?"  
>"John!" came a deep, throaty cry. It was Sam's. He sounded worried. "John, what the hell happened to you? We've been calling for <em>day<em>s!"  
>John's forehead crinkled with confusion. That couldn't be right, could it? John had been sat here on his chair for more or less the entire week, and there was <em>no way<em> he could have missed any calls.  
>Maybe I fell asleep, he thought. His sleep pattern had been damaged so severely after Sherlock, it wouldn't be a surprise if he fell asleep a few times.<br>John cleared his throat. "Really? That's my fault, terribly sorry. I'm . . . I'm still alive." He couldn't bring himself to say 'ok'. He doubted he would ever be okay again. When Sherlock jumped off that hospital, so had a piece of his heart, his soul - his will to live. He was many things, but 'ok' wasn't one of them.  
>"Sammy, put me on the phone," Sam's brother Dean snapped. There was a slight commotion on the other end of the line, and John could only assume Dean had tackled him for the phone.<br>Suddenly, Dean began to speak. "John, you sonnovabitch, do you have any idea what kind of _hell_ we've been through, trying to contact you, you freakin' jerk? We thought the Demon had you. We were _this_ close to coming back to England to save your miserable ass!"  
>"That's completely unnecessary!" John exclaimed, feeling defensive. "Everything's good over here. Nothing's happened. Nothing at all."<br>"We're not so sure," Sam said in the distance, but was quickly hushed. There was a long pause before Dean spoke again.  
>"John, something's happening. Something big. Now, I don't know what it is, but it's like nothing we've ever dealt with before. Whatever this is . . . it isn't normal."<br>"What, so you think it's some sort of . . . Demon?" John lowered his voice so Mrs Hudson wouldn't hear. Ever since his fateful encounter with the Winchesters, who had, coincidentally, been hunting for a Demon in the exact same place where John had been investigating a series of homicides in Sherlock's place, John had tried to keep his landlady in the dark as much as possible. Criminals were one thing, but John had been given a glimpse of another world, a world of the supernatural, and he would be damned if she ever had the misfortune to see it, too.  
>"That's the thing! From what we can tell, it isn't a Demon, <em>or<em> a human. It's something else, and I've got this really bad feeling about this whole thing. John . . . I'm actually _scared_." Dean's obviously confusion over his emotions was almost enough to make John smile. The seriousness of this situation however, made him sit up in his chair.  
>"What do you know so far?" He asked.<br>"We have a few accounts. A few people have heard of him, here and there. Not much. But it's always the same story. Some weird looking guy and a chick appear in a big blue box and wherever they go, there's some sort of freaky shit that follows. Normally it wouldn't be worth our time, except this time it is. Someone or something has been attacking the homeless for about three months now, and nobody knows what's doing it. It's like they've been . . . ripped to shreds, or something. Sam and I found this girl, she had to be about seven years old, and . . . it got her dad."  
>Dean paused for a moment, perhaps remembering the death of his own parents, but then continued. " The thing is, this girl . . . she <em>swears<em> she saw this guy – this big blue box guy, and she swears it was _him_ who killed her dad. But we've checked everything, man, I mean everything, and there's nothing."  
>"That is weird," said John. "But what does this have to do with me?"<br>It was odd, but there was something oddly familiar about the words 'big blue box' and everything that Dean had described so far had some affect on him, but he couldn't place his finger on it.  
>This time it was Sam who spoke. "Everything we've heard about this guy traces back to England. Seems like anywhere in the United Kingdom is a big hotspot. You're one of our friends, John, so we need to know everything you know."<br>"Hang on, hang on, I don't know a bloody thing," John snapped. "It's not like I have much to go on. Does this 'big blue box' guy even have a name?"  
>"Nobody knows," said Sam. "Nobody knows his real name. Except him, of course. But anyone who claims to have met him . . . they say he calls himself the Doctor. Just that. Just 'the Doctor'."<br>John felt the blood rush out of his head. His hand, which shook continuously due to his time spent at war, grew still. He could feel his heart pounding almost as much as it used to, when Sherlock was still alive, and he knew there was only one thing he could do.  
>"Where are you? I'm getting the first plane out of here." He said flatly, reaching for a pen.<br>"What? Why? Do you know this guy? Who is he?" Asked Sam.  
>"He's . . . he's not supposed to exist. But he does anyway. That's actually him all over, miracles where ever he goes. But he isn't the bad guy – not by a long shot. But trust me when I say, if he's in town, then something else is, too. And <em>that<em> wouldt probably be the _real_ bad guy."  
>There was a long, awkward pause. John hardly noticed, until the silence reached about thirty seconds and he realised the two brothers had something else to add. "Well? What else?"<br>"Are you sure he isn't the bad guy, John?" Dean asked quietly. John felt the room grow unmistakably colder.  
>"After the little girl told us what happened, she said something else. She said there was another person there, a man, and she said she heard the other guy – this <em>Doctor<em> – shout his name."  
>John shook his head, growing more impatient by the minute. "What the bloody hell does that have to do with anything, Dean?" he demanded.<br>Dean sighed. "John. The name he shouted was 'Sherlock'. 


	2. Chapter 2

_(A/N – hey again. I managed to get this chapter written a lot earlier than I expected, so I'm quite happy. Apologies in advance, as it's just setting up the plot for now, but I promise the next chapter will have a lot more drama in it. Big, big thanks to my friends on Tumblr, as well as everyone who reviewed my first chapter. I don't own any of the right to these characters, they belong to the creators of Supernatural, Sherlock and Doctor Who. Enjoy!)_

"I freakin' hate planes . . ."

Dean Winchester looked around the airport, searching through the endless assembly of tourists, businessmen and families, scanning for any sign of John Watson.

So far, he and Sam had been sat waiting for John for a good three hours. Dean, who had a natural aversion to flying, automatically suspected the worst. The plane has, without a doubt, been hijacked by some soul-sucking demonic parasite and everyone died in a horrible, bloody massacre. Despite Dean's best attempts to convince him, Sam seriously doubted it. Although, with John's plane _this _late, it was difficult not to worry. Especially under the circumstances which brought him here.

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and glanced at his wrist watch. "Just after eight," he commented, watching as Dean jumped out of his seat and began to pace. "We'll give it one more hour, and then . . . I don't know what we'll do."

"We shouldn't have mentioned his friend, this Sherlock guy. I bet we scared him off. He doesn't want to have to face . . . . whatever the hell happened between them. What _did_ happen, anyway? He never mentioned –"

"Never mentioned what?"

Dean spun around, startled, relieved and a bit confused, and then began to clap. Slow, loud, and furious.

"You took your time, didn't you?" he said sarcastically. "Nice job, Doc."

John Watson flashed Dean a dry smirk, and then proceeded to embrace the two brothers in an awkward, uncomfortable way. Neither of the men were fond of hugs.

"So, no ghostly encounters on the plane trip, then?" Sam asked.

"No such luck I'm afraid. One of the passengers had some sort of fit, and we had to make an emergency landing." John explained, lacking the enthusiasm he should have for a story as exciting as this.

Dean raised an eyebrows, and folded his arms across his chest. "That's weird. Do you know what happened?"

John let out a sigh. "Absolutely no idea. I thought maybe it was some sort of allergic reaction, due to the swelling and the fever, but . . . I can't explain it."

The three men shared with each other a knowing look. To them – or, at least, to the Winchesters – nothing was _ever_ a coincidence, and definitely not at a time like this.

"Uh, well . . . I guess we should probably get outta here, then. John, how much luggage do you have?" Sam enquired.

John looked down at the floor, and then back up to Sam. "None. I didn't bring any. I can get some stuff if I need it. Come on. Let's go."

Once in the car, nobody spoke. John had taken to staring aimlessly out the window, and Dean was preoccupied with the diving - although Sam had a feeling he was also envisioning one of the female baggage scanners they had ran into on the way out.

Sam had his own thoughts to attend to, but most of them had to do with John's flight. He knew that delayed flights were perfectly normal in today's world, but he couldn't quite shake the vibe he got whenever he thought of it. There was something _too_ coincidental about it. He knew John and Dean felt the same way, but not as he did. It seemed that, to Sam, they had just dismissed it completely, as if it wasn't of any importance.

Was it important? Whenever these things happened to the brothers, it usually tied in somewhere with a case they were working on, and a place they were visiting. Maybe it was paranoia, but Sam just had a _feeling_ that this connected with the Doctor, whoever he was, and the attacks.

He was just about to fall asleep, when John's voice, soft and hushed, brought him back to reality.

"Do you think he did it? The Doctor – I mean. Do you think it was the Doctor who killed all those people?"

Sam sighed. He could tell from his tone that John resented the idea, but he had to admit, there wasn't much else to go on.

"I don't know. I don't want to rule anything out," Sam turned in his seat to look at John. "How do you know of him, anyway? Have you seen him?"

He shook his head. "I haven't – but my friend has. Her name's Martha. Martha Jones. Brilliant doctor, she is. I've only worked with her a couple times, but we meet up quite often for a drink. She's lovely, really."

Sam smiled patiently. "Okay, but how do you know she isn't just making it up?"

John laughed humorously, his smile fading almost as soon as it appeared. "I knew you'd say that. But Martha; no, she's not crazy, and she's not one to lie. She's too kind. And either way, why would she make up something like that?"

Sam made no effort to reply, so he continued. "She's mature for her age – wise, compassionate. She . . . she _sees_ the world in a way we don't. I asked her about it once, at the pub. She didn't say anything. Not for a long time. And then she started to open up. She said she once met a man – the Doctor – and he took her away to have adventures in a Police Telephone box from the 60's. She said he was a . . . a _Time Lord_, and the kindest man she ever knew, and that he saved the world more times than we could possibly understand. I probably would have thought she was insane, too, except I'd heard similar stories all around London. Just talk, you know; a man, in a box, saving the world. I never really believed it, actually. Until I saw . . . that thing . . . in the house with you and your brother that night. And I suppose now I'll believe anything."

Sam nodded thoughtfully, and Dean said nothing. He didn't want to upset John by saying something stupid. He respected the guy's blind faith in this Martha girl, but he knew that when it comes down to it, some second-hand account of the event was not going to cut it. He needed some hard, unbending evidence for him to even _consider_ the idea that the Doctor wasn't involved in this.

"Uh, I don't know if you're up for it, man, but I was wondering . . . who's Sherlock?" Dean asked suddenly.

Even in the middle of the night, surrounded by darkness, it was obvious that John had gone pale. Dean's heart lurched for a moment, thinking he might be sick. But John managed to compose himself, although not enough to force a smile.

"Sherlock . . . um . . . my friend. My best friend, actually. Best friend, flatmate, co-worker; I . . . yeah. He was great. I mean, he was an arrogant prick, but he was . . . he was a genius. Literally. I mean, he could tell your whole life story from one quick glance. And that's the truth, no matter what he, or anyone else says." John pursed his lips tightly, as if to contain a sob. He gave a short, sharp nod, not unlike that of a soldier. It was obvious to Sam that he didn't want to continue the conversation, but Dean, who was still focused on driving, persisted.

"What do you mean by that?" he asked curiously. "'What others say'? What are they saying? What happened?"

John made a strange choking noise and cleared his throat. For a minute, Sam thought he saw tears in the doctor's eyes, but they disappeared before he could think about it.

"He . . . he . . ." John took a deep, shuddering breath. "Jumped. Of St. Bart's. I thought you'd have heard. Everyone . . . they're all talking about it. About him. Being a fraud. They say he faked everything, and paid people to help him. He told me himself, actually. Over the phone. Said he was a fake and it was all a trick, right before he . . . died. Except, I know him, and I know his heart. He was more real than anybody I've ever known."

There was a long, painful silence. Dean gripped the steering wheel tightly, cursing himself for even bringing it up. Sam was thinking deeply.

Suddenly, he snapped his fingers. "Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes! I heard about him! Over the radio. It was only brief, but I remember they were talking about him. They said he payed some actor – Richard Brook? – to pretend to be a criminal mastermind or something. Who did he play?"

"Moriarty," John whispered. "And it wasn't an act. Moriarty was real. I know he was. He has to be."

Sam and dean shared a look, and it was as if they could read each others minds. Of course Moriarty wasn't real. 'Criminal masterminds' hardly ever existed, and if they did, nobody would know about them, because they'd be smart enough not to get caught. Sam felt a sharp stab of pity his friend; the poor, confused war veteran, who had obviously been used, played and deceived by someone he'd believed to be a friend. And now he was suffering, because said 'friend' was gone. Or was he?

Sam hoped that the man the little girl had described was the guy John was talking about. He hoped Sherlock was alive, and travelling with the Doctor. Sam made a mental note to find this guy, and kill him for hurting John the way he did.

Even in the darkness, the light of the moon perfectly revealed where they were. Somewhere in South Carolina, on an empty highway lodged between to vast corn fields. The setting was peaceful, silent. Sam shut his eyes, relaxing his body, trying to get a least an hour's worth of sleep. Murmuring a quick goodnight, he rolled over and cleared his mind.

_Vworp, vworp, vworp_

His eyes snapped open and he sat bolt upright in his seat. Dean narrowed his eyes.

"What. The hell. Was that."

_Vworp, vworp, vworp_

"Dean, pull over." Said John quietly.

"Why? What is it?" he demaneded.

_Vworp, vworp, vworp._

"Just do it!" John ordered. Dean stomped on the breaks and the car came screaming to a halt.

Just seconds before a huge, blue police box came flying past.

_(A/N – I know, it's a horrible cliffhanger! I wasn't sure how to go about the idea in my head, so it really, really sucks. But oh well. Thank you so much for reading! If you could leave a review with some tips, I'd appreciate it _so_ much! Thank you!)_


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